


Things Change

by loveleighe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, and a filthy thief, jean is damaged, marco kinda likes it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleighe/pseuds/loveleighe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like he planned for everything to go this way. Truth be told, he’d really honestly and truly planned for it to go to the opposite way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Change

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! There's a bit of sexy stuff in this one (a very small bit) that I suppose some people could read as dub-con but is 100% consensual between these two babbs.

It’s not like he planned for everything to go this way. Truth be told, he’d really honestly and truly planned for it to go to the  
way. 

When he was a kid he’d always dreamed of becoming a lawyer; fighting the good fight, putting the bad guys away. Keeping the streets safe. His parents thought it was an admirable ambition and encouraged him, of course. When he hit high school he had the best tutors money could afford. 

Life was great. 

He thought he had it all. They lived in a big house with a nice yard. They had a fluffy cat that was decorated with ribbons - he had good friends, and a nice pool to enjoy the company of those friends in. He was almost best in his class - damn you Armin Arlert - and everything felt _safe_  


Then one day everything changed. He’d heard the bang about the same time his parents had and he’d leapt out of bed, snagging his lacrosse stick on the way to the door. In boxers and barefoot, he’d padded silently down the stairs. 

His mother met him at the bottom. Held a finger to her lips and mouthed for him to go back to bed.

Internally, he scoffed at her. It was probably nothing - or Eren had gotten drunk and was trying to sneak in through the wrong window again. He’d grabbed her gently by the arm and eased her towards the stairs, inching further down the hall and into the foyer. 

His father wasn’t facing him. He had his hands in the air and he was silent except for his heavy breaths. 

He couldn’t see past the larger man but...his blood ran cold. This was the man who had chased monsters out from under his bed, who’d gotten into heated arguments at sports events when other rowdy parents got too involved. This was the man who had protected him his entire life, now cowering in silence, unable to even speak. 

The person at the door didn’t even say anything; 

There was a second bang. He felt blood spray across his face. His ears rang from the blast and he watched, jaw open as his father collapsed to the floor. Distantly he could hear his mother screaming his name - nothing was registering though. Nothing except the feel and look of sticky blood slipping across their cherrywood floors and pooling around his feet. 

It’s a nice neighbourhood. As Jean stands, shocked, the neighbours begin to waken. Lights come on and people shout - it could be hours, or seconds, but soon there’s sirens. Grisha Jeager (who had been a personal family doctor for their family since Jean was born, and whose wife baked the most amazing cookies) was the first to arrive. He’d knelt in the blood beside Jean’s father and examined the body with quick, proficient touches. There was nothing he could do. 

It was Carla who took Jean, though. His mother was a screaming mess in the background, collapsed in the doorway and shrieking in German. Grisha was trying to calm her, hands wiped clean with a towelette he kept in his pockets. 

Carla murmured into his ear as she sat him at his own counter, washing his face and stroking his hair back. She tried. She really, really tried to calm him down bring him out of the shock. It didn’t work of course.

They could’ve lived comfortably in the house. Jean’s mother wanted to. She’d come into his room and begged and pleaded with him three months after it all happened. Told him she would pay for his therapy. She left his university applications sitting on his bedside table and one night, bored, he’d burnt them - along with his curtains and half of the top floor. 

All she did was get him his own apartment and fix the house. He couldn’t blame her, not really. Her and his dad had been high school sweethearts and there were lots of memories in that house for her. For Jean though? All of the memories had been wiped away and replaced with utter failure. He spoke to the police as often as they wanted and he sat and waited as the case went cold and nothing was done.

Eren called him once, to ask about school. Jean had replied, absently. “Law is bullshit.” Before hanging up and blocking Eren’s number. 

That had been five years ago. Now Jean is twenty three and his therapist insists he’s doing better. Jean likes to think the man is full of shit and a terrible liar. He likes to wonder if the man is stupid or if his mom just lines his pockets really well. Any idiot could put two and two together. 

\-- 

He likes to pick big houses. He considers himself a darkened Robin Hood, stealing from the rich. Only, he doesn’t give to the poor and he really doesn’t give a fuck either way. He kind of misses the younger version of himself who was idealistic - the one who would punch current Jean in the face and call him an asshole for what he’s doing.

Still. At the end of the day the wealthy need to pay. Or something. He doesn’t really know why he does it, aside from boredom and proving that he can.

Okay. So maybe it has a lot to do with making sure that people know. They  
to know that they’re not safe. Because you know what? The law isn’t going to do shit for them, and they better man up and take care of themselves. 

He knows this house doesn’t have an alarm system, despite the stickers in their window. He also knows the house currently doesn’t have anyone in it; from their garbage, they’ve gone to Hawaii. They  
however have a tall fence that he scales easily, landing in a crouch inside of the woman’s herb garden. He feels kind of bad for that because fuck, the plants didn’t do shit, but whatever. Life’s not fair. 

No lights come on. He was fairly certain the family here - who seemed to be big on organics and recycling - would turn off their motion floodlights if they left; or, that if they hadn’t everyone would chalk him up to being the stray cats the little girl who lives here feeds. 

The window is stupidly easy to open and he silently curses them for not locking it. Don’t they know any better? They will, at least, when they come back. He hopes they install metal bars. They don’t look the best but they’re damn near impossible to get through. He slides it up all the way and sighs through his nose, hauling his torso in.

It’s their kitchen, of course. He pulls himself into a seated position on the counter and tugs his legs in, closing the window carefully. The fences are much too high for anybody to see over - something they’d done for security reasons, he supposes. Silly people - and when he’s safe behind the glass he rests for a moment.

The first few minutes always get his heart pumping. Despite knowing he’s doing everything right, it’s hard not to feel anxious. After taking a deep breath he twists and drops off their counter, kicking his shoes off as he goes. 

Most people keep their good shit in their rooms. Jewelry boxes, the like. Even though Jean steals from people who are well off, he doesn’t really give a flying fuck about taking good things. It’s not about money - it’s about showing them the truth. So he doesn’t bother heading upstairs, just yet. Instead he prowls the main floor, leaving the lights off. Everyone thinks these folks are gone and all he needs is for some asshole trying to peep out an upstairs bathroom window while taking a piss to catch him snooping. 

There’s nothing interesting. There’s not even any family pictures hanging around. Everything feels warm, yeah, but it’s pretty barren and Jean wonders if these people will even care when he’s done, or if they’re just...bland about everything. He rolls his eyes and checks his watch. Three thirty am.

He hmms and haws for a second before deciding that sleeping in their house is the better option. The busses stopped running at two, and he’ll have to wait until six for them to start back up. He makes his way back to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, or pepsi, or whatever else is in their fridge. It’s as he’s pouring lemonade into a crystal glass that he realizes it -

His fucking shoes are gone. 

His heart leaps into his throat and he abandons the beverage, twisting around to where the knife rack -

Used to hang. It’s gone, too.

He runs through his options. 

Either the house is being burgled by someone else at this moment, which, hey fuck you asshole.

Or one of the family members stayed. He distinctly remembers all of them getting into their shiny Santa Fe though. So that can’t be it unless…

They hired a fucking house sitter. He smacks himself in the face for his stupidity and presses his back closer to the counter, watching the two separate entrances to the kitchen with rapt attention. 

He can go out the window. Mind you, the missus of the house has rose bushes sitting outside the kitchen window that’ve already scratched up his pants, ankles and hands. He doesn’t know how good that’ll be on his feet. Not to mention that the youngest like to leave her toys strewn about the yard and legos are a bitch. Staying though - the cops could be there any moment, and wouldn’t that be the cherry on the fucking cake? The irony of it. 

He wonders if he can smooth talk his way out of it, or sneak out the front door like he’s doing the walk of shame. Maybe get up to dad's room there and steal something to make it more believable. 

Sneaking out the front is more believable. If he can do it before the cops get there, anyway. Once the sirens go off the whole street will be lit up like Christmas and he’ll be fucked sideways cause of it. He takes a deep, calming breath and creeps forward.

He decides to go left.

By the time he makes it to the staircase he swears sharply under his breath. The door that leads up?

Is fucking locked. 

People do silly things when panic sets in and Jean, now, is panicking. He moves through the house faster and louder than he should be and after ten minutes finds himself back in the kitchen through the door he’d originally left from.

The door on the right is locked. He doesn’t think after that - fuck it. The thorns will be worth it because whoever the fuck else is in the house is not kidding around and Jean doesn’t really want to die, at least not today. He beelines for the window only to find the damn thing has a stick shoved in it. A really, really big stick that is really, really stuck. He struggles for a moment to open it before it happens.

A soft click.

He whips around, sock-clad feet almost slipping on the perfectly polished tile to stare at the intruder. Or - well, you know.

It’s a man about the same age, holding the knife block and looking like something out of a fucking horror film with the way half his body is covered in scars. Jean feels himself getting a bit dizzy. Panic has definitely set in by now - he’s going to be killed because he’s a stupid asshole with issues who decided that a life of petty crime was the life for him. His poor mom is going to lose the only other person in her life, and the fucking  
of it all. 

He never hurts anybody when he breaks in. He just scares them. He manages to croak out as much as he stares into the calm face of tall and knife-ladden. Then everything kind of goes dark around the edges and he grabs at the counter as he starts to slide. The other man furrows his brow and watches. 

Jean’s kind of glad he’s fainting. Maybe he won’t feel it when he’s killed now. Because if the cops aren’t here yet, and with the way that other dude looks? Jean is going to die. He knows it.

\--

People don’t faint how like it is in the movies. They aren’t out for minutes or hours when it’s just a plain old panic-spell. It’s usually only between five and thirty seconds. 

Still, when Jean starts coming to he feels like maybe he’s been walloped and blacked out for a good few days his head is pounding so hard. His eyes fly open and he tries to sit. Someone makes a soft noise of discouragement and he freezes, before laying his head back against the ground. After taking a grounding breath he rolls his head to the side, eyes wide.

The other man is sitting cross legged on the ground. The knife block sits beside his knee, and he’s sort of lounging there, watching Jean with a curious expression. He’s turned the kitchen light on now, and his face - while still scarred - doesn’t seem as horrific as Jean had imagined it to be. They eye each other up in silence for a few minutes before the other man cracks a smile.

“Do you want to explain why you thought it would be a good idea to break into my parents’ house?” He asks, voice calm and vaguely amused. 

Jean furrows his brow and gives him a half-glare. “No.”

“No?” His smile widens. “You break into someone else’s house and don’t even bother trying to give an explanation for it?”

There’s something about him that’s just - fucking irritating. Maybe it’s the freckles on the unscarred side of his face. Maybe it’s the fact that someone with that much damage  
smile when Jean’s cheeks feel like they’re going to rip at the seam of his lips every single time he forces one onto his own face. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s gotten caught and nothing has happened - no law, no justice. Just him laying on the floor with an - ice pack? on his forehead. 

Jean isn’t really thinking rationally. He hasn’t been for years. He’s not really surprised with himself when he twists and lunges at the taller, broader man.

He's surprised when the other man moves too, however. He’s a smidge faster and gets one foot under himself, catching Jean’s halfhearted tackle easily and twisting him around. Jean ends up flat on his belly, hands twisted up high on his back. A weight settles uncomfortably at the base of his spine and Jean really, seriously, doesn’t like where this is going.

The knives clatter heavily as the dark haired man uses his free hand to shove them across the kitchen. “I really, really do not want to hurt you. Believe me when I tell you that I would rather eat glass than hurt someone else, no matter what the reason. And I don’t want to call the cops either because shit happens, you know? Nothing has been taken or destroyed yet, so it’s fine. You’re fine. I need you to calm down for me though, okay? I can’t let you go if you’re going to try to hurt me, you understand that right?” That voice is way too calm, soothing. Like he’s talking to a scared pitbull rather than a skinny, ragged burglar who could be a junkie for all he knows. 

He pants into the tiles, body pumping adrenaline. “It’s okay.” The voice murmurs. “Just relax.” And a hand strokes softly against the spot between his own hands and the base of his back, rubbing small circles. Sometimes it brushes down his ribs like he’s a heaving horse and he silently damns the bastard to hell and back as he feels himself settling under the weight. 

“You’re making my legs go numb.” He mumbles eventually. He receives an apologetic hum in response as the weight shifts.

“Okay. So there’s a few ways we can go about this - what’s your name?”

“Like fuck I’m telling you my name.”

A laugh. “My name is Marco. Marco Bodt. You really won’t tell me your name?”

“Are you stupid? Why the fuck would I -” His wallet lands in front of his face, open. His expired drivers license glares back at him and Jean swears loudly against the tiles, barely resisting smashing his head off of them.

How in the name of god did he fuck up so, so badly? 

“Jean.” Marco says, tapping his forehead to get his attention. He turns as much as he can to give him a sour look. “I told you, there’s a few ways. I can call the police and have you charged - I told you already I really don’t want to. Or I can call my friends to come over to make sure you get out...but they’re a little bit big, and scary and overprotective. So I don’t think _you_ would like that.”

“That it? Two options? Shitty and shittier?”

A soft sighing laugh. “No there are three. The third option is you stretch your arms above your head and give me time to move away. I’m going to put the knives back and you can have your lemonade. If you’re hungry, we can get you a sandwich and then we can talk and you can tell me why you’re breaking into my parents house.”

“What’s going to stop me from attacking you?” 

“If you wanted to, you really would’ve at first instead of just trying to get away.”

“Why didn’t you let me?”

“Get away? Someone would have seen you sneaking out - the floodlights on the side aren’t on because they hurt my eyes but the front door ones are fine. And believe me.” There’s a bitterness to that calm voice now. “No one would believe that someone like you was in here fucking the damaged Bodt-bot.” He says the name like it’s a dirty word, like it’s something people spit at him.

Jean glances over his shoulder and tries to meet the other man's eyes. He opens his mouth to argue, ask what’s going to stop him from leaving when his stomach decides to be treacherous and grumbles loudly, making his face flush hot. The question dies on his tongue and he turns his face back towards the floor.

“Jean. I still have your shoes too, remember?”

Right. Great.

“Go make me a fucking sandwich.” 

And when Marco lets his arms go? Jean stretches them flat against the floor and waits impatiently for the other man to stand, fetch the knives, and place his now full glass of lemonade on the table before he rises. 

He sits at the giant kitchen table, facing Marco. Neither of them turn their backs on each other, really, with the exception of Marco darting his head around the kitchen occasionally to pick things up. Jean thinks it’s a little weird, then feels a pang of guilt when he realizes that Marco’s scarred eye is either fake or blinded. He scoffs at himself for guilty over being presumptuous when he’d originally been here to  
the place. 

Eventually a sandwich is dropped in front of him and Marco hastily goes to the other side of the table. There’s enough space for them to stretch their legs out without touching, and Jean lounges as he picks up half the sandwich and takes a big bite. 

“S’good.” He says around his mouthful.

Marco smiles at him over his own glass of lemonade. “The buns are homemade and a girl I know smokes her own meat. The kielbasa is her secret recipe.” 

Jean wipes his hands on his pants when he’s done and crosses his arms. “So what’s going on here. You kidnapping me?”

“Oh no, of course not. I just figure - the busses won’t be running for a while yet and it’s probably a distance to your house. Your wallet doesn’t have anything in it aside from your drivers, so I don’t think you’ll be cabbing it home. Plus - I want to know why you broke into this house.” There’s an edge to Marco’s smile that shoots a thrill up Jean’s spine. 

Jean sighs and rolls his eyes. “Because your parents are fucking stupid.” Marco doesn’t respond to that except to raise an eyebrow, eating his own sandwich much more sedately. “It’s just a thing okay?” The guy has his full name and address. It’s not like if he really wants to get Jean in trouble, he can’t. “It’s just a thing I do sometimes. Break into stupid people’s houses to tell them to smarten up.”

“Why?” 

He pauses. He can’t believe this is happening - that he’s sitting here at almost four thirty, having a conversation with the dude he tried to rob. An honest to fucking god civil conversation. “Because when I was younger, my parents were fucking stupid too and it got my dad killed.” He confesses. It feels...weird to say it like that. To his therapist he pulls his words back, bites the insides of his cheek, his tongue. Swallows the truth and lets it burn in his stomach like battery acid, setting fire to his heart and lungs. Devouring him. “And no one did jack shit about it. So now I do this so people smarten up and get better security systems. Christ, three weeks ago I didn’t even have to break in the idiots just left their door unlocked when they went out for a nice fancy night on the town. Gated community? Not that safe. Leaving your door open is just asking for someone to come in and stir shit. At least if it’s _me_  
no one gets _hurt_.” No one _dies_. 

There’s...there’s understanding on Marco’s face. “Have you spoken to anybody about that?”

“What about the fact that I let myself in and fuck around with people's shit? Yeah totally. Definitely something all my friends and family and therapists know.” He scoffs, eyes rolling so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out of his head. “Are you kidding me? Who the Hell do I have to talk about this shit with?”

“Well, me, for starters.” He sets his sandwich down, appetite gone. “Come on let’s get you upstairs.”

Jean gapes. “What?”

“You might as well catch an hour or two before you sneak out.” He shrugs. 

Everything feels weird but Jean just goes with it. He’s still scared of being murdered but fuck it. There’s not much he can do right now anyway. Marco leads him to a bedroom that’s even more plain than the rest of the house - a guest room, he’s assured - before bidding him goodnight. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.” 

Jean closes the door behind Marco and presses his ear to the wood. He listens as the other man trots quietly to his own room, closing the door. There’s a distinctive click of a lock and his shoulders sag in relief.

The room he’s in doesn’t have a lock. But it does has a chair sitting by the window that he wedges haphazardly under the doorknob. 

He falls asleep ridiculously easily and wonders to himself if maybe he’s been drugged. 

\--

When he wakes up his watch tells him that it’s ten o’clock in the morning. His heart leaps into his through; no one will be looking for him (his mom stopped trying to call him daily to check up on him two years ago and uh, he doesn’t have any friends) but still - almost six hours snoozing on a stranger's bed? 

He climbs out from under the covers and fixes his rucked up shirt. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the chair away from the door and peeks his head out.

His shoes are waiting for him, along with a still-warm, foil wrapped breakfast burrito. There’s a note taped to his shoes, as well, which he picks up after shoving the burrito into one of the baggy pockets on his pants.

_Jean:_

_Your wallet is on the stand beside the front door. I had to go to work but please make sure you lock the door behind you. The key goes under the red gnome by the front gate - if you stick to the left no one will see you putting it back._

_If you’re going to take anything please leave me a note telling me what it is so that I know how to break the news to my mom._

_Last night was fun._

_I’ll leave the key under that same gnome if you decide to break in again - make it a little easier next time!_

_Sincerely,_

_Marco Bodt._

“This guy is crazy.” He says to the house at large, glancing around. “Absolutely batshit fucking crazy.” He wants to deny the awe and intrigue in his own voice, but finds that he can’t. He kind of wonders what it would be like to...to come back. To break back in, even if Marco is going to be waiting for him.

The thought of someone waiting for him causes a little shiver to trickle up his spine. 

It’s that trickle that makes him do it. He leaves the key where he was told to, but makes sure to stick a piece of paper under the lock in the back door. It’ll click if someone tries to make it work; it just won’t latch fully. Something that Jean plans on utilizing.

He eats the burrito on the bus and collapses face down into his own mattress. When he wakes up, it’s dark again and that trickle is now an itch of electricity, slipping up and down his nervous system in pleasing little waves.

Marco got the best of him last night because Jean wasn’t expecting him. 

It won’t happen two nights in a row.

He’s not normally a stereotype but he figures why the fuck not? Instead of the regular whatever-the-hell-he-wants, Jean tosses on black jeans and a black sweater. A black cap gets added to the mix, twisted backwards like the asshole high schoolers he likes to mock endlessly. 

He takes the bus to the neighbourhood then spends a few hours wandering. No one pays him any mind as he hums and smiles to himself, stopping to jot down the phone numbers of real estate agents on any house in the area that has a ‘for sale’ sign. An elderly couple stops to ask him how his night is going - it’s only eleven at this point - and he smiles, let’s them know his mom is looking for a new house and he figured he’d do a walk around since she lives nearby. Hers is a  
too big for her to handle at her age, you see?

He gets called sweet, and has his cheek patted before they head off. He rolls his eyes behind their backs and settles on the most decrepit house on the market to wait out the night. He ends up on the roof, tucked under a branch that hangs too close, flat on his stomach and eyes focused down the street.

Marco comes home around one, driven by a man that seems almost too tall to even fit in a fucking car. They exchange words as the taller guy walks Marco to the door. There’s a hug, then a wave, and Marco slips inside alone. 

The tall man glances around the street and Jean swears to God that he can feel eyes on him. He wonders what he looks like up close. Despite himself, he sinks further against the shingles, own gaze narrowed as the tall guy takes his sweet ass time getting back into his car and driving away. 

He waits a while longer. Another three thirty break in would be too cliche, so Jean times it for around two fifteen. He watches Marco as he strolls through the house, alone and trusting. He turns off lights behind himself and eventually the light in his room goes off. Jean recalls that his bedroom door has a lock on it, but he doubts that it’s locked tonight.

He opens the window first. Leans in to thump a set of steel toes noisily onto the floor, then slams the window shut again after he ducks back out. 

He doesn’t wait to see if Marco comes. Instead, he ducks down into those damned rose bushes and slinks along the side of the house until he reaches the back yard. He peers hesitantly through the glass door, heart hammering furiously in his chest. This is a dangerous game of tag, and he feels like a kid again - sort of careless, and a whole lot of reckless, fucking around with things he shouldn’t be. More intense than playing nicki nicki nine doors on Levi’s front door and that jerk always kept stuff to throw or shoot at them by the front door (he also had had the habit of siccing his giant boyfriend on the kids - Erwin Smith was a terrifying giant of a man to the seven year olds that terrorized the neighbours doors)

He watches Marco creep through the dark, on the tips of his toes. He’s heading for the kitchen and the silly bastard is grinning to himself, face pitched in shadows. Jean waits, patient now. He knows how long it takes to get into the kitchen, and when he’s counted to thirty mississippi's he leans against the sliding glass door to stop it from rattling, and pushes. 

It breezes open silently and he toes off his sneakers, creeping into the house. He breaths through his mouth slowly, trying to minimize the noise as he glides through the family room and into the hallway, ears ready.

Marco is puttering in the kitchen. He can hear the slap-slap of barefeet on tile and the confused “What the fuck?” the other man hisses when he realizes Jean is no where to be found. 

They circle each other. 

It’s a dance that neither of them are really fully aware of playing. Marco slinks as gracefully as he can through the door on the right; it winds back down into the family room, where the back door is open and the silky curtains are snapping in the wind. Jean slides through the door that’s on the left, into the kitchen...then into the hall on the right. He crouches in the shadows and watches Marco pry the paper from the lock, disbelief across his face. He laughs, silent, and tries to ease the door back shut as quietly as possible.

It goes on for an hour; an endless, maddening, thrilling game on man-hunt. They leave the lights off and they keep their distance, stalking and prowling through the dark after one another. 

Jean hasn’t been this happy since before his father died. The realisation makes his throat tighten in emotion and he takes in a slow, shuddering breath as he lowers himself behind a couch seconds before Marco enters the room. 

His heart pumps painfully in his chest as he slides a hand over his own mouth to try to muffle his breathing. He strains his ears as Marco creeps around the living room. There’s a china cabinet beside the door; in the dim light a half-moon tosses into the room, Jean can barely make him out. 

He’s shirtless tonight; loose pyjama pants drag at his hips and his feet are bare of course. He’s rolled onto the balls of them still, nose scrunched as he concentrates on not stepping on familiar, creaky floorboards. 

He’s totally unaware. Jean’s sure he can feel the prickle of eyes across his flesh but he can’t pinpoint it, and finally, blessedly - Marco gets too close and Jean attacks. 

He hits the taller man from behind, arm curving up around his torso, just barely missing his throat as they tussle. Jean tries to get their legs tangled and fails miserably - despite there not being much of a difference, Marco is a faster thinker. He tosses his weight backwards and Jean curses loudly into his ear as they fall - the couch catches them, and Marco’s elbow catches Jean in the gut. He wheezes as the airs knocked out of him and tosses his hips, flinging them both off the couch and onto the floor. They narrowly avoid the glass coffee table and as soon as Jean can breathe again, he grabs Marco’s forearms to wrestle him some more.

They end up bruised and a little worse for wear. Marco is on his back this time, Jean sitting triumphantly on his stomach and bouncing occasionally to watch the other man lose his breath again, “oomphing” it out as his fingers dig mercilessly into the soft skin behind Jean’s knees. They breathe heavily together, eyes locked in the dark. 

Jean isn’t really ashamed to feel that he’s half hard. He can see Marco eyeing the seam of his pants every once in a while, question in his eyes. He doesn’t seem disgusted or bothered. 

“You got a death wish?” Jean pants out, scraping a hand over his sweaty hair. 

Marco laughs tiredly shaking his head against the floor. He lets go of Jean’s legs and folds his arms behind his head. “No, not at all. The opposite.”

“Yeah? What’s all this then?”

“I don’t think I’ve felt  
alive in years.” Marco admits. He shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably. “You have to understand - when you first came in I was scared, but you didn’t...do anything. You didn’t break or damage anything and you didn’t seem interested in doing any of that anyway. All you did was wander around. And when you realized you were found your first instinct was to go away, not to fight. The only reason you even attacked me was because you were cornered and freaking out. But…” He licks his lips. “Even after you saw my face, and my chest. The scars - you didn’t change. One time, before I was...really friends with my friends - Reiner...he’s a good guy don’t get me wrong. But it was just when we’d first met, and he was big wolf on campus. I smashed into him, couldn’t see and he went to punch me. As soon as he saw my face he became this...big, apologetic teddy bear. I mean that’s the whole reason we became friends - because I wasn’t afraid of him. But he treated me like glass. Still treats me like glass. Hell, my own brothers won’t even play ball with me on family reunions. Do you know how much that sucks? So when you took a look at me, shrugged and came at me anyway it was really...refreshing. And I didn’t get the sense that you would actually hurt me. Incapacitate, yeah. But not hurt or kill.” 

Jean watches him for a long moment. Swallows a bit and tilts his head. “You know - I wouldn’t actually hurt you, yeah?”

They’re strangers. It doesn't make any sense - none of it. Jean has no idea why he’s compelled to talk to Marco, to come back. To stay and do this...whatever this is. This very dangerous thing.

“I know.”

“But you know I’m not a good person, too right? I’m really not, Marco. I break into people’s houses for fun, disturb their peace and happiness.”

Marco smiles in the dark, eerie with the way the moon lights up his scars. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, Jean.”

Jean sits back, folds his arms as he stares down. When it clicks in his head he points an accusing finger in Marco’s face. “You’re an enabler.” 

Marco almost knocks him off of his stomach he starts laughing so hard. “I would  
tell you it’s a good idea to break into other people's homes. But if you want, I can give you my actual address. I don’t have a spare key, but my windows are pretty accessible.” He’s grinning, stupidly, and Jean fights back the urge to kiss him. Instead he sinks his fingers into Marco’s ribs just to hear him scream as he writhes away from the ticklish sensation. 

\--

Jean sees his therapist twice a month. There’s no court order or anything, it’s just something he’d started doing after the murder and had gotten into the habit of. 

Normally their sessions are filled with one-sided conversations or silence. Sometimes his therapist - a Doctor Hanji Zoe - doodles in their notebook, glasses drooping down their face. Sometimes, like today, they lean back and smile at him softly. “You look better. Have you been taking your sleeping medication?”

“No.” Jean replies, furrowing his brow at them. “I told you I’m not going to take pills.”

“Hm.” They hum, folding their arms across their chest. “Okay. Anything you want to talk about?” The little notebook shrinks like to jot in is discarded on the table, and he realizes he must really look different if they’re being this open and earnest with him.

“Not really...I met someone.” 

He doesn’t tell them much. Just that he met someone and it’s going well, and that he doesn’t feel as upset all the time. Belatedly, he realizes that the anger he’s held in his chest for so many years has started to dissipate, fading into the air every time Marco’s mouth brushes along his neck, his ear. He wonders if maybe he’s actually found happiness and after he leaves the doctor's office he stops in the middle of the street to throw back his head and laugh.

Passers by give him a wide path, someone muttering if maybe they should turn him around and send him back inside the hospital. 

He sends a message to his partner, fast, as he jogs for the bus.

_You’re a filthy little thief._

His phone dings a few seconds later.

_On the contrary, I’ve never stolen a thing in my life aside from a lego piece from pre-k, thank you very much._

Jean wants to call bullshit, but he’ll wait. 

The neighbours had called Marco, frantic the first time they’d caught Jean on the roof. Marco had told them that Jean likes to sit up there to be alone, and that Marco always knows that he’s there. They’re friends, and it’s okay. Since then, everyone ignores him. It’s not unusual to see Jean perched on the roof late at night, patiently playing with his phone or doing something else.

Tonight though, he sits in the tree. He watches Marco come out and circle the house three times, looking for him. When he can’t find him, the dark haired man fetches the ladder and climbs up to peer across the roof. At the emptiness, he glances around wearily.

Jean watches as Marco puts his ladder away and locks the door firmly behind himself. His blood starts pumping faster in his veins and he bites back a moan of anticipation. 

He cat naps in the branches, patiently letting the sun set. It’s too cloudy for moonlight tonight, but that’s fine. Jean knows this house like the back of his own hand now. He swings off the branch and drops the last foot to the roof, twisting to catch himself in a crouch, sideways to prevent careening off the side (which he had done, once - the first time; dislocated his shoulder and Marco had laughed for almost three days straight, the fucker) 

He pads across the roof quietly and maneuvers down to perch on a sill that sticks out too much. He’d stuck a pen in the window before he’d left, and he worms a pinkie under the edge of the class to pry it up. He’s lubed it up a few times since he started coming around and it glides soundlessly up into place; opening just enough for him to slide in and let it close behind him. He shrugs out of his jacket but leaves on the sweater.

Marco, the bastard, is in the bathroom and Jean rolls his eyes at the cliche of it all. Still, there’s something to be said for the way it feels to sneak around like this...prowling through the house. Because he can, he helps himself to the food laid out on the table. Drinks half of Marco’s beer and then creeps away to hover in a corner. 

Marco knows the game well. He doesn’t linger long in the shower but comes down to his finger-food dinner in nothing but a towel, humming and dripping water as he walks.

The tiles are slippery under his feet. Not that it matters; he doesn’t really struggle when Jean grabs hold of him _anyway_. There’s hardly much of a wrestle until Jean’s got his pants open and his belt twisted up in Marco’s wrist. Here, Marco struggles and begs but it’s not that serious, not real, when he’s laughing through the entire thing, squeaking and squealing as Jean finds all his tickle spots, mouthing at the top knob of his spine with wet lips and sharp nips. 

They get too worked up on nights like this; high on anticipation, on waiting. They’ve both been aching for hours and Marco made sure to take care of himself in the shower so it doesn’t take much before Jean is pushing in against his soft insides, pinning his hips to the ground. They can’t move much; not with the belt wrapped around Marco’s wrist, or the pants tangled around Jean’s legs. The thrusts are short, fast, and deep - and somehow, it’s perfect as they writhe together on clean kitchen linoleum, crying out as loud as they want because there’s no one there to listen.

It’s over faster than it starts. Jean unwraps Marco’s wrists and mumbles something about having another shower. Instead though, he drags the plate of munchies off the table as well as the bottle of beer and they sprawl naked on the cold tiles, staring at the ceiling as they eat.

“I take it therapy went good?” Marco ventures after a while, sitting up with a faint wince. He smiles after, though, and crosses his legs. His arms are long enough to reach the fridge and he drags out more booze, settling it on the floor between them as Jean arches and groans.

“It was alright.” He shrugs, careless.

“Mmm.”

They sit in companionable silence, nursing their drinks. 

Until:

“You are a fucking thief though you know. Way worse than me.” Jean tosses out, giving his partner a sour look. “Way, way worse dude.”

Marco scoffs at him. “I told you, I’ve never stolen anything except -” Jean curls a hand around Marco’s; drags it close to brush over his own chest, face red and eyes darting away. He can hear Marco swallow heavily and feel him moving. He closes his eyes and inhales sharply as lips brush against his temple. “Dummy.” Marco murmurs. “Me too.”

\--

Jean’s father was murdered seven years ago, in a robbery that turned sour fast. In a fit of rage Jean had left school, left his mom with scorched walls and no one to love, and just...gave up.

He turned to a life of petty crime, out of boredom and out of a skewed sense of justice. He wanted to show people that they needed to be afraid. That they needed to be careful to lock their doors. 

His doctor called it PTSD. 

Jean called it common fucking sense.

Two years ago, though, Jean got caught by a pretty boy with a mutilated face and dark eyes. He got caught, and trapped, and he kind of fell in love. He had his heart stolen right from inside his chest, and he kind of really didn’t mind that.

His nightmares stopped after a while and he managed to get his GED. He snorted at the idea of college and instead started working part time at a home alarm company. 

See, Jean loves irony. 

He tells Marco as much as he double checks to make sure his shoelaces are tied. They’re standing in the dark together, patiently watching a house. They’ve been here since eleven o’clock and it’s going on four already. 

Eventually, a thick man exits and hops into the front seat of a massive truck. 

“They’re totally going to know.” Marco whispers, rolling his good eye when Jean reaches out to adjust his eyes patch. His boyfriend had absolutely  
that he wear it. “No one else would know to steal Bertl’s good china. They’re going to know _immediately_."  


“Nah, not till they get it back at Christmas.”

Marco can’t help but laugh.


End file.
